


Check It Out

by themegalosaurus



Series: Oh Sam tripleplay fics [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Cursed Sam, Curses, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>'Something strange: it looks like Sam’s painted his door. Which… would be weird in itself, but is like ten times weirder because it’s not even a plain colour. It’s </i>plaid<i>.'</i></p><p>Originally a commentfic for <a href="http://ohsam.livejournal.com/845164">the Oh Sam tripleplay</a>, written to ladykorana's prompt: LOCATION: The Bunker // SECONDARY CHARACTER: Dean // AFFLICTION: A curse involving plaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check It Out

Dean’s four eggs and a heap of bacon deep in breakfast, and Sam’s nowhere to be seen. That might not usually be so odd. Sam likes to get up early and go outdoors, take a long run through the woods around the Bunker, then come back sweaty and drip all over Dean’s kitchen while he eats everything in the fridge. But this morning, Dean discovered something called Buzzfeed, winking at him tantalising from Sam’s ‘most visited websites’ list. Turns out it’s not quite as smutty as it had first sounded (as he’d first hoped): but there’s something weirdly addictive about it anyway, and when he looks down at the clock in the corner of the screen he’s mildly horrified to see that it’s 11am. Two hours have passed and the only thing he has to show for it is the knowledge that apparently, if he were a Disney princess he’d be Jasmine (of course he would, she’s hot); his Harry Potter house is Hufflepuff (shut up); and oh yeah, according to some kid in glasses, his taste in music sets his age at fifty-five. No comment on that last one, thanks.  
  
Anyway, Sam out running at 9am is one thing; Sam not showing between 9 and 11 is quite another, and so Dean starts to worry about where his brother might have got to. Sam sleeps badly, all the time, so he never sleeps in late unless he’s getting sick. And Sam sick is… well, it’s a pain in the ass quite frankly, all grumbly and sniffly and grumpy when Dean tries to help him, denying that there’s anything wrong as he coughs all over the library. Dean would really rather not have to deal with that right now. But he’s a good big brother, and so he hauls himself to his feet, closes the list of  _18 Times Taylor Swift Made Us Jealous on Instagram_ , and sets off down the corridor to investigate what’s up with Sam.  
  
Approaching Sam’s bedroom, he pulls up short. Something strange: it looks like Sam’s painted his door. Which… would be weird in itself, but is like ten times weirder because it’s not even a plain colour. It’s  _plaid_. Sam’s actually spent the time to get four or five different colours, lay out a base coat, measure out neat lines in masking tape, and… the whole thing is so out of character that it’s making Dean anxious. Is Sam possessed? (Is Sam possessed, AGAIN?) Why on earth would he suddenly decide to settle down into the Bunker (after all this time) and choose, of all things, to turn his whole bedroom plaid? Because, yeah, Dean’s inside now (no sign of Sam) and the door isn’t the only thing that’s changed. There’s a big, heavy plaid blanket on the bed, the bedside lamp is also plaid, the pillow is plaid and oddly enough the lightswitch (of all things) has turned plaid too. What’s worse is that they’re not all even consistent designs. The room’s an eyesore. It gives Dean a headache just looking at it.  
  
So, now he has two mysteries, and still no Sasquatch. “Sam?” he calls. He pokes his head back out of the door, and notices something: the bathroom door, down at the end of the corridor. Also plaid.  
  
Dean advances slowly towards the bathroom. “Sam?” he says again.  
  
There’s a heavy sigh from inside. “Yeah,” Sam says quietly.  
  
Dean steps into the room, and reels. Um. The sink is plaid. The faucet is plaid. The  _tub_  is plaid, and standing in the middle of all of it is Sam, clad in plaid pyjamas and (most disconcerting of all) with a distinctly colourful mane.  
  
“Dude,” says Dean, blankly. “What the fuck?” The bedroom is one thing but – Sam’s  _hair_?  
  
Sam juts his lower jaw forward sulkily, gazing down towards the floor through particoloured strands. “I think it’s some kind of curse,” he says. “Since this morning, everything I touch…”  
  
“Everything you touch turns to plaid?!” Dean shouldn’t be this amused, not with Sam looking so dejected, but really…  _really_? “Bro!” he says.

“It’s not  _funny_ , Dean,” and Sam looks up at him. “I didn’t…”  
  
“I know, I know,” Dean says. “Your hair. Very precious to you. Jesus, Sammy, though, you look ridiculous.”  
  
Sam breathes a sigh through his nose, pauses for a long moment and eventually says, with obvious reluctance, “It’s not just my hair.”  
  
Dean looks down at the toilet (which, you guessed it, is plaid), back up at Sam squirming in the middle of the bathroom, and feels laughter start to bubble uncontrollable in the pit of his stomach. “Don’t tell me –” he begins and Sam interrupts, high-pitched.  
  
“Dean,  _I needed to pee_!”  
  
It’s too much. Even… it’s just too much, and Dean gives into it, lets the guffaw that’s been building since he clocked Sam’s new hairstyle burst out big against the echoey tiles. He can’t help it, can’t stop it now he’s started, and he’s doubled over and wheezing hard with his hand on the tub for a good five minutes before he finally breathes and slows. When he finally looks up, Sam’s still standing exactly where he was before, bright scarlet in the face and with such genuine misery in his expression that Dean starts to feel guilty. A  _little_  bit guilty. You know.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says, wiping away tears. “I’m sorry. OK.”  
  
Sam’s hands are clenched tight into careful fists. He’s rigid, evidently frightened to move. Dean can hardly blame him.  
  
“OK,” he says. “Sammy. We can deal with this.”  
  
“I think it’s the blanket,” Sam says. “I was cold, my bedroom is pretty cold, and I remembered that I’d seen something in one of the store rooms. It was just in a regular chest, and it had this nice plaid pattern on it, and it looked good and thick and woolly, and actually, yeah it was actually really warm.” He looks at Dean. “I slept really well.”  
  
“OK,” says Dean. “Great.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Sam, “except all my dreams were kind of… plaid.”  
  
Dean doesn’t want to laugh again, not right away, so he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and makes a muffled, encouraging noise.  
  
“Anyway,” Sam says, “that was one thing. But then when I woke up, and I turned on the light… yeah. Plaid. And the pillow. Anyplace I put my hands.”  
  
“Just your hands?” says Dean. He looks down at the floor. Sam’s bare feet are touching the tiles and the tiles are still dark green. OK.  
  
“I just,” Sam said. “I shouted and you didn’t hear me. And then I tried to text you, but my phone went plaid and I couldn’t see the screen. So I waited but…”and he shifts from foot to foot, awkward.  
  
“You had to pee,” Dean supplies.  
  
“Yes,” says Sam, as small and muted as Dean’s ever heard him. “So.”  
  
“So now you have a very... personal... plaid... problem,” says Dean, and just the saying of it sets him off again, a snort that turns into a laugh so violent that he thinks he might break a rib. Fucking Christ. Sam’s plaid penis. This might be the greatest day of his life.  
  
This next time, when he stops and looks up, Sam doesn’t look so much embarrassed as furious. “OK, Dean, I get it, it’s ridiculous,” he says. “Thanks a lot.”  
  
“Can… can I see it?” says Dean.  
  
“No fucking way,” says Sam. “This is bad enough without –”  
  
“Oh come on,” says Dean, and he reaches up towards the elastic of Sam’s pyjama waist. Lightning fast, with the well-trained instinct of a younger brother, Sam reaches down, fingers clamped iron around Dean’s wrist. Blue and green lines spread out in parallel across Dean’s skin.  
  
“Oh,” says Sam. He looks up at Dean. “Oops.” Suddenly, something catches in his eyes. He lunges for the fly of Dean’s jeans. 

~~~

Forty minutes later, Dean is standing in the woods at the back of the Bunker, watching as that first plaid blanket vanishes in flames. As the last shreds of it curl and disappear, he looks over at his brother and breathes a sigh of gratitude. Sam’s hair is turning back to brown, the colours fading out of his clothes to reveal the familiar black and grey sleepwear that’s been hiding beneath.

  
Okay. Just... with a rapid glance in Sam's direction, Dean tugs at his waistband and shifts his gaze down into his pants. Oh thank God. The relief is enough to make him almost queasy.  
  
When he stops inspecting himself, Sam is grinning at him through the smoke. “Alright. Back to normal," he says.   
  
“Thank Christ for that,” says Dean.  
  
“I should have realised what would concentrate your mind,” says Sam.  
  
Dean suppresses a shudder.

“I don't know why you think that's funny, Sam,” he says.


End file.
